WHO SAW HIM LAST?

These were the shoes he wore. Notice the soles are thin. He’d walked many miles in these trying to get ahead.

This was his favourite jacket. He felt wealthy when he wore it. Even though it had holes in the pockets.

This is the shirt he called his lucky one. He always wore it to important meetings and although nothing ever came of them he felt this shirt would bring him luck. Someday.

These were his favourite pants – he’d been married in them. Twice.

This was the hat he wore everyday. It shielded his head from the rain and the wind and the sun. And if he pulled the brim down, from everyone.

This is the map he lost just before he lost his way.

These are the tears he cried when he had nowhere to go.

This is the heart you broke and you didn’t even know.

These are your letters he kept when he believed in you.

This is the photo of his mother who thought he was precious.

Where are the friends he helped instead of helping himself?

This is his favourite song that he played every night.

This is the movie he said changed his life.

These are the books he loved now all packed away.

Who saw him last?

(C) Frank Howson 2019

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THE MISTS OF DAWN

Down here on this barren battleground
We have been issued no orders
We don’t even know who we are fighting anymore
Yesterday the fog was so thick
We mistakenly shot our own leader
And laid him to rest ‘neath a tree
Perhaps we should withdraw
Which is not a surrender
We mustn’t surrender
For there is too much to lose
But we’ve forgotten what
Send word back
That we have not thrown down our weapons
But we need back up
And supplies
It seems we have gone weeks without sleep
As we sit in the dark every night
Waiting for the enemy to attack
But they never come
This is a very sophisticated strategy
That we have not been briefed on
For our leader is dead
And his family have not received word
For they will only grieve
And too many tears have been shed
Too many hearts broken
Too many roads taken
Too many widows haunting us
In the mists of dawn
But we are holding our position
And ready for action
Eager to do him proud
To fight to the last man
We have burnt our white flags
So we wouldn’t be tempted
Our enemy has a lot to answer for
We just haven’t been informed of what
But we’ve been told to hate them
I wonder if they’re scared like us?
I wonder if they sleep?
I wonder if they just want to go home
Like we do?
I wonder if they’re still there?
Perhaps the war is over
I wonder who won?

(C) Frank Howson 2019

WHERE DID WE LEAVE THE STORY?

Where did we leave the story?
Oh, that’s right, you left me
Were we out of our minds
To ever think we’d be free?
What’s the name of that street?
No, wait, it’ll come to me
Did we throw away our good fortune
Whilst searching for destiny?

“I knew a man who went to sea
And left the shore behind him
I knew that man for he was me
And now I cannot find him”
You once sang me that song
On our way to the gym
I think it’s about a legless man
And how it was he could still swim

Where did we leave the glory
We’d fought so hard to win?
Perhaps God was insulted
And deemed it a sin
What is that condition
When we’re too scared to win?
But perhaps we can’t blame it on theories
The truth is we’re made of tin

Where did we leave those tablets
That got us through the night?
Who said we had a chance
And that we were in the right?
You know me so you know
When I glow in the light
I don’t give up till I’ve given my all
Although this time I just might

Why did you leave our story
Just when things had worked out?
Were you afraid to express
All of the things that you felt?
Well it snowed this Christmas
Alone I watched it melt
Then I toasted us with aged whiskey
Although our drink is stout

(C) Frank Howson 2019

WEEKENDS & HOBBIES & ROAST DINNERS

I was asked a few questions recently by a new friend that really had me thinking. Scrambling for answers actually, and aware of the long silence the enquirer was experiencing. In radio they call it “dead air.”

One question was “What do you do on the weekends?”

Yeah. What do I do on the weekends? I guess the question reminded me yet again to my embarrassment that I’m not a normal person. For you see, the answer, truthfully, is I don’t know what I do on weekends. I guess normal people have plans or a regular arrangement. Or habit. Or get-together. Or ritual. Me? Nothing. I go with the flow. Maybe see a movie if there’s something showing for the over-fourteen market. Maybe see a band or a friend performing? Maybe walk along the familiar memory-laden streets of St. Kilda down to the foreshore and watch people having fun in the sun. Or the overcast winter waves crashing in where Brookes’ Jetty used to stand. Maybe meet up with a friend for something to eat and a beer or wine depending on the mood. Although I can always be tempted to have a sublime cheesecake and a coffee at Monarch Cakes in Acland Street.

Sometimes people call in to see me unannounced. Surprise visits are nice, mostly, unless it’s the police and they have the wrong house!

Other times the luxury of just doing nothing and thinking nothing is like a holiday in the French Riviera. That nice warm feeling that grows nicer with the years of just being home, safe, relaxed and alive. Sometimes like the character in the song “Waterloo Sunset” it just feels right to sit and watch the world by my window.

One thing I have enjoyed doing for many years is going to the South Melbourne Market and joining the throng as we file in homage past all the delectable meat, fish, poultry, deli exotics, fresh bread, pastries, fruit and vegetables on display.

In my opinion, the Chinese hole-in-the-wall takeaway at the Cecil Street entrance sells the best spring rolls in the world. When I lived in Los Angeles and would come back to visit my son I’d always make the taxi from the airport stop en route here so I could quickly grab a couple to go, such was the extent I had missed them in La La Land. I guess part of that addiction was that they reminded me of being home.

I remember my Sundays in L. A too when I’d walk from West Hollywood to Century City Plaza, a long but very pleasant leisurely stroll that would end at the cineplex there to watch a new movie and then an hour browsing in the beautiful bookstore (actually all bookstores are beautiful to me) at the bottom of the escalators. One time I chatted to Donald Trump there as he sat signing copies of his then latest book and I wished him well.

So much of my life has been solitary for one reason or another and some times I feel that it’s God’s way for a creative person. Walking, observing, taking mental notes of odd things, thinking, daydreaming, trying to make sense of nonsense, etc.

Would I have preferred to have walked these steps with the person I loved? No doubt. But I have come to grips with the resolution that it was not written to be a part of my story, this time around. Only fleeting years of romance here and there. And now the sweet inner longing has taken on a somewhat beautiful warm glow of loss. And that glow fills many songs and scripts and stories of mine and in them love is reborn and remembered fondly now the scars have healed and left one with the exquisite taste of what will not come again. Perhaps. But such longings can be walked away if you have the right shoes.

The second question I was asked was, “Do you have a hobby?”

Again, I was stuck for an answer. Any answer. But thinking back I remembered as a child buying at the corner toy shop those boxes that contained lots of plastic pieces with glue included in order to fit all the pieces together and make my own replica planes. Normally World War 2 bombers.

I’d also sit in my bedroom as my parents berated each other and read The Adventures of Biggles, Robin Hood, Treasure Island and Johnny Yuma The Rebel.

When I lived in Fawkner Street I’d grab my football each late afternoon after school and walk out into the street in front of my house bouncing my football. You’d only need to bounce it for a minute or two and presto! You’d have a fellow team of boys all eager to grab the football and in their imagination kick the winning goal. Looking back, so much of what we had to make do with was exercising our creative imaginations.

Anyway, back to the question, “What do I do now for a hobby?” It made me a little sad to think that I don’t really have a hobby in the traditional meaning. Everything I do is in some way work related. I write. And the writing is my therapy in that it’s my way of making sense of things.

I go to movies. But even that is in a way work related. Same as going to a play or a musical.

I paint and sketch but that is something I have been doing most of my life but have only recently at the urging of others taken it seriously and have been grateful for a couple of successful exhibitions. I must admit that painting does relax my restless mind and soothe me more than anything else I do. But a hobby? Like going fishing? Not really. Or playing golf? Nah. I like to chat to people. My mum was a chatter person. I like to engage in conversation with others as I like to laugh, to quiz, to swap opinions, to stimulate thought, etc. Maybe that’s my hobby?

When I lived at my previous apartment it had a nice oven and I did like to make a roast lunch or dinner every Sunday and have people drop in for something to eat. I guess it reminded me of my own family when my mother and father were alive and Sundays were a very special day. My dad would be sober and in a great mood and he’d take it upon himself to cook the roast and all the trimmings. It was a sense of family as it should be, as it could be, and it made me feel whole and even as a young boy strangely blessed, appreciating it even at those tender years because perhaps I had an instinctive premonition that these times would rarely come to me again.

(C) Frank Howson 2019

THE DEAD AND THE DYING

The heavy decrepit bodies of the great and not so, mingled with their offsprings, children too young to realise that this too would be their fate. Pathetic men way past their glory days paraded pretending that they still had it, while bored defeated women looked on knowing they didn’t.

It was another day at the enclosed perfectly temperatured salt baths. The warmth was comforting to the skin and the soul and made old bones and muscles feel rejuvenated. The inhabitants floated safe in this maternal womb away from the business deals that no longer mattered in a world that no longer cared and was on its last legs. Some old guys studied the racing form while younger middle-aged men preferred the stock market. Some gambled with their own money while others ventured with what they had married into, or had inherited. All in all there’d be few winners that day. There were no more lucky numbers to be had, or surprise gold and mineral funds in a world that had been looted, raped and gang banged so many times there was nothing left. Certainly not energy for outrage. Only resentment from natives who had been trampled under foot and squashed by the invaders who destroyed paradise without ever having taken the time to truly look around and realise the greatest wealth was above the ground. But like rats they burrowed lower and lower into darkness desperate for any shiny morsel of opportunity. Never thinking any further ahead than that.

We had destroyed the world without realising that such an abomination also destroyed ourselves. What we project outwards also implodes us. Given time.

I stood in the warm salt water as the floating bodies of the dead and the dying circled me.

(C) Frank Howson 2019

Sketch by Frank Howson.

A WALK IN THE RAIN

He aged within the silences of our stilted conversation. His eyes were those of a man who’d seen his kingdoms fall and the survival mechanisms of such pain had turned him into a statue. Although he was outwardly pleasant and patient there was no one there. He was a ghost haunted by himself but chained to a place that had been familiar in his real life. I wondered if like other theories of ghostlore he was doomed to act out his past mistakes over and over again until they revealed something he hadn’t known before. And replayed to the incessant drumbeat of “If only I’d done this. If only I’d done that. If only…If only…

The dark circles beneath his eyes told me he didn’t sleep much and that the night was rarely his friend. To him there was no morning, afternoon or evening only awake time and dozing time.

It was those eyes that still haunt me to this day. They told me they knew the secrets of this life and that the knowing of such things begats a penalty far beyond any pain most humans experience.

He said his best writing came to him at 3am which was God’s favourite time to speak through us, when the night is still and the silence is that of eternity. The world at momentary peace with itself and you feel you can hear God’s breath within the comforting embrace of darkness. Such were the fleetingly magic moments when inspiration struck him.

He felt he was no longer a person, but a vessel. He had worn himself out in his search for a lasting kind of love and knew now that it was not written as part of his destiny. Hence he no longer sought it for it only carried disappointment in its train. and such disappointment sometimes took years to wash away. A penalty for those who cared too deeply. Furthermore he now feared he no longer contained the capacity to feel the emotions of normal people, and wondered why God had spared him and taken so many others. Sometimes it crossed his mind that the lucky ones died young, still hopeful with dreams intact. He mused that perhaps that old saying was true, “God calls home first those he loves the most.”

These days he liked to walk in the rain. It made him feel something.

(C) Frank Howson 2019

Photo by Raija Reissenberger.

THIS PRISON HAS NO BARS

From the mansions of sadness
To the bums on the street
From the highways of loneliness
To the halls of defeat
I’ve watched your ascendance
The road I never took
Girl, you’ve come a long way
On a smile and a look

From the poolside of stardom
To the kids on the run
From the mountains of compassion
To the things never done
I’ve watched your progression
With an assassin’s eye
I could have been there too
But my heart doesn’t lie

There are stars in cars on every corner of this town
You’re gonna need a lot of help
When you finally come down
You’re slept with the Caesars
And you’ve dined with the Czars
But none of them told you why
This prison has no bars

From the towers of power
To a broken man’s plea
From the face on the magazine
To the girl you used to be
I’m waiting for some answers
Beneath the falling stars
Wish I could’ve warned you
This prison has no bars

(C) Frank Howson 2019